I always wanted to make a book of the many wonderful letters I received from Dean about his relationship with former Marine Eric. That remains a project I hope to accomplish some day. In the meantime, I’ve had several requests to post the letters Dean sent me over the years, so here goes with as many as I can find.
(Issue 22, May/June 1991)
1
Pantywaist Becomes Ex-Marine-Big-Brother’s Slave Girl
COLORADO. My formal introduction to the world of B&D occurred as a fraternity pledge in college. However, the seeds of my submissive nature had undoubtedly been planted earlier. During my junior year of high school, my mother had caught me kneeling naked in my room, sucking the penis of my best friend and swim team buddy, Jon.In a clever attempt to make the punishment fit the crime, my parents confiscated all my cotton jockey shorts and replaced them with girl’s silk panties, just like those worn by my sister, until such time as I repented and promised never again to engage in such unmasculine behavior. In the eyes of my macho father, it was unthinkable that any son of his would be other than a clone of himself; a jock, a moneymaker and a connoisseur of pussy. Unfortunately, I was a massive failure on all fronts. I wanted to be a musician, not a jock, and I preferred to perpetrate beauty rather than greed. Worst of all—and most unforgivable—preferred cock over twat.
What my parents hadn’t anticipated was that their panty discipline would produce the opposite effect from that which they had intended. I discovered that I really liked wearing panties. Not only did their soft silkiness feel good against my skin, but, in addition, they appealed to the more gentle, feminine component within me which my father was trying so desperately to repress. Although Dad had grudgingly paid for my piano lessons, he had not a clue as to why I might want to be a professional musician. What really counted were the things real men do. Consequently, I grew up constantly under pressure to get involved in such pursuits as Little League, soccer, Boy Scouts, hunting, fishing and, finally, the varsity swim team in high school.
As time went by and I gave no indication of being penitent, dad began to exhibit signs of confusion. I really believe he was counting on its being just too embarrassing for me to be seen in the locker room wearing panties. What dad didn't know was that, on those occasions when I had to undress in public, I simply wore a pair of plain white nylon hip-huggers, which were similar in appearance to the bikini undies worn by a lot of my teammates. Anyway, what the hell? We used to kid that our nylon Speedos were our sisters’ underwear! Of course, I never told dad about any of this. He was already paranoid about the fact that most of us kept our bodies free of hair in order to increase our speed in the water, and he would have liked it even less had he known that we helped shave each other’s more unreachable parts.
Dad’s frustration only increased as we began to argue about college. He had his heart set on my attending his alma mater, pledging his fraternity and majoring in business. My piano teacher was encouraging me to audition at one of the nationally known music conservatories such as Curtis Institute in Philadelphia or Juilliard in New York. As a compromise, I applied to dad’s university, but with the understanding that I could major in music so long as I promised to pledge his fraternity and go out for swimming. The swimming part was okay, although, of course, I would never admit to dad that I really enjoyed it. I was least happy about the Greek shit, but felt fairly secure in the knowledge that, since this particular fraternity was ninety-nine and nine tenths percent jock, my being a swimmer, often thought to be one of the least masculine sports, would probably not be enough to offset the fact that I was a music major—usually considered synonymous with sissy, wimp and fag.
What I hadn’t taken into consideration was the extent of the old man’s influence and the amount of money he had poured into that Greek sinkhole over the years. I learned of my acceptance as a pledge through a note in my mail box, instructing me to report to the frat house some time before Saturday for further instructions. Having procrastinated as long as possible, I wandered over to the house in the middle of Saturday morning. No sooner had I darkened the door than one of the brothers informed me that the pledges had already been assigned to big brothers, and that mine was looking for me.
I immediately felt a lump in the pit of my stomach upon learning that my big brother was a sophomore by the name of Eric. Eric was five years older than I, having spent four years in the Marine Corps. He was a big, gorgeous brunette, the absolute prototype of the Marine recruiting poster, and was the only upperclassman I really disliked. No, actually, I hated him! His physical size alone was intimidating, but his belligerence toward the pledges caused me really to fear him.
After knocking and being told to enter, I felt even more ill at ease. Eric was working at his desk wearing only a pair of tight-fitting cotton jockey shorts, the whiteness of which stood out in marked contrast to his beautifully tanned and very muscular body. As Eric sat there, silently staring at me, never in my whole life had I felt so inadequate. Nor was my uneasiness alleviated by my clothing. There I stood, in front of one of the biggest jock studs in the fraternity, wearing a pair of turquoise OP short shorts and a pink tank top which gave ample evidence that my chest and underarms were as hairless as my legs.
When Eric finally broke the awkward silence, it was to chew my ass for not reporting to him earlier. I made my excuses as I backed toward the door, feeding him a line about being in a hurry to get back to the music school for a piano lesson. Ordering me to freeze in my tracks, Eric told me that he had called my father and gotten his enthusiastic approval for me to move out of the dorm and into the frat house. My next mistake was in telling Eric that I liked the dorm and had no intention of moving into the frat house.
The display of temper which followed nearly caused me to pee in my pants. Eric’s fist came down on the desk with a bang, while yelling like a drill sergeant that I was a spoiled little piece of sissy shit, and that I was about to get my first lesson in obedience. Even before I could attempt an apology, Eric told me that I had ten “big ones” coming with the paddle, and double that number if it took me more than twenty seconds to get bare-assed naked.
Having removed my shoes, socks and tank top, I hesitated when it came to dropping my shorts, due to the terrifying realization that I had procrastinated too long in buying myself some boy’s underwear. While giving me the joyful news that my stalling had just earned me another ten “big ones,” Eric began ripping at my shorts—which hit the floor about one-tenth of a second ahead of Eric’s jaw! There I stood, in front of the absolute epitome of military machoness, clad only in a very feminine pair of pink nylon panties.
My immediate expectation, as well as my secret hope, was to be ejected instantly both from Eric’s room and the fraternity. Unfortunately, instead of a violent explosion, Eric simply went back to his chair and sat down, focusing his clear blue eyes on my very unmasculine skivvies. Feeling a nervous, compulsive need to fill the vacuum created by the sudden silence, I began to babble incoherently about how my parents had made me wear panties, and how I hadn’t had time to go out and buy myself some boy’s underwear.
Finally, Eric screamed at me to shut up. After another awkward silence, he said quietly, “You look nice in panties.” Then he added sarcastically, “Besides, girls are supposed to wear panties. Only real men wear jockeys.” All the while Eric was doing his best to humiliate me, the swelling in his own briefs, combined with the growing huskiness in his voice, gave clear evidence that he was enjoying the scene immensely.
Getting up out of his chair, Eric said that we had better get my training underway if he was going to make good on his promise, just made to my father, to make a man out of me. The mere thought of the Marine Corps had always been enough to intimidate me, but the prospect of being disciplined by an ex-Marine turned my whole body into jelly. I hadn’t wanted to join a goddam fraternity in the first place, for craps sake! Now things were totally out of control and, for once in my life, I felt powerless either to escape or to manipulate the course of events. To be honest, I had never been so frightened in my life as Eric ordered me to bring him the heavy oak paddle hanging on the wall.
Producing a pair of serious looking handcuffs which were, according to Eric, the genuine Marine Corps article, I was told to place my hands behind my back. After clicking the cuffs tightly around my wrists, Eric produced something I had never seen before: a gag consisting of an artificial penis attached to a fairly wide leather strap. When I refused to open my mouth, Eric held my nose until my mouth flew open, telling me that “Any pansy music major who wears girl’s panties is a born cocksucker and you’re going to be sucking a lot of cock, so you’d better get used to it.”
Instead of being made to “assume the position”—which would have been a tricky proposition with my hands bound behind my back—I was surprised to find myself being pulled down over Eric’s lap. I had never been spanked in my entire eighteen years, and I was totally unprepared for what followed. After pulling my panties slowly down to my knees, Eric proceeded to set my ass ablaze with the paddle, using his left arm to block any attempts on my part to fend off the blows with my cuffed hands. As I writhed helplessly on Eric’s lap, with tears streaming down my cheeks, I became aware that, in spite of the excruciating pain from the rapid-fire paddling, the heat being generated in my ass was spreading into my groin, causing my penis to stiffen involuntarily against Eric’s leg. It was, at one and the same time, the most painful, yet the most erotic experience of my entire life. Long before Eric stopped beating me, I had pumped a load of cream onto his bare legs.
When Eric had finished, he pulled me back onto my feet. After sponging me off with a washcloth, he slid my panties back into place and removed the gag from my mouth. Pushing me down onto my knees, Eric forced me to lick my sticky cum off his legs and then made me pull down his briefs using only my teeth. When at last I had managed to strip off Eric’s jockeys, I was treated to my first experience of sucking a man’s cock with my hands totally immobilized. The combined effect of being forced to suck cock, kneeling, with hands bound behind my back, wearing only women’s panties, was unbelievably humiliating. To make matters even worse, as Eric continued to fuck my face, he lectured me about what a sissy fag I was, and about how I was going to be his slave girl, not only during the pledge period, but also for the next three years until he graduated. Interspersed with this tirade were rather cryptic instructions as to how he wanted me to service him with my mouth and tongue, the only equipment I had available since my hands were still cuffed behind my back. Although I had sucked several boys’ cocks previously, I was totally inexperienced in how to deal with a penis the size of Eric’s. When, occasionally, I would begin to choke on it or accidentally nick it with my teeth, Eric would lash my bare back with a doubled-up belt, telling me that we were going to keep at this until I became an artist at sucking his cock.
In spite of the humiliation I was suffering, something deep inside me was responding to this terrifying male who had, in less than an hour, completely subjugated me to his will. I had never willingly surrendered control to anybody in my whole life. Yet, by the time Eric had exploded down my throat, I had a new erection clearly visible in the front of my panties. None of this was lost on Eric, who briefly massaged my penis through the thin nylon, telling me that his experience as a Marine Corps MP had made him an expert in dealing with sissy faggots like me.
Rather than allowing me any further sexual relief, Eric forced me to spend part of Saturday afternoon strung up to an overhead hook outside his door. Replacing the penis gag, and using a bandanna to cover my eyes, Eric immobilized both my knees and ankles using webbed belts. Taped to the wall next to me was the crude sign he had forced me to make, identifying me as “ERIC’S PANTYWAIST SLAVE GIRL.” For the next hour or so I was subjected to the jeers and obscenities of all the men walking through the hall. My being blindfolded seemed to suspend the inhibitions of those who desired to abuse me physically. Consequently, I was subjected to a fair amount of tit twisting, as well as having my genitals and ass fondled and pinched through my panties.
Although this particular fraternity had a reputation for heavy hazing, most of the paddling, except for hell week, was left to the discretion of a pledge’s big brother. The major and much dreaded exception to this rule was a game called “Batter Up.” Pledges who had fucked up had to publicly work off their demerits by spending a specified length of time tied naked over a horse, in the fraternity’s exercise room. A picture of a baseball, painted on ripstop nylon, was then tied with strings around the waist and legs of the victim and centered directly over his ass, providing the target for the bat which was, in reality, a flat paddle cut to resemble a baseball bat. The object was for the poor pledge, whose ass was in the air, not to make any audible sound when struck. A “referee” was always assigned who would rule on whether or not the pledge had emitted so much as a gasp or a whimper. After an accumulation of three “silent” strokes, the referee would yell “You’re out!” and the “bat” would be passed to the next player. The only good news for the hapless pledge was that he was permitted to shed tears so long as he did so silently, and the strips of Turkish toweling used as blindfolds were usually soaked by the end of a game. Only the risk of extraordinarily severe injury would cause a referee to “call” a game. Needless to say, this diabolical little game provided hours of fun for the actives working out in the weight room. However, for the unlucky pledges, it was a horror! It only happened to me twice during the three month pledge period, but both times my ass was in such a hash that even Eric, who could always find some excuse for putting the wood to my buns, would allow me a few days to recover.
Having learned the hard way never to argue with Eric, I moved out of the dorm and into his room. Most of my “free time” as Eric’s slave girl was spent running endless errands for Eric and keeping our room as spotless as a barracks. Saturdays would find me washing our clothes, hanging out shirts and pants on hangers, sorting our socks and neatly stacking our underwear; Eric’s jockeys in one pile and my panties in another. Not surprisingly, my “wifely” duties also included providing a hole at either end for Eric to fuck anytime he failed to score with one of his dates. Eric’s affinity for bondage, probably nurtured by his experience in the Marine Corps, resulted in my spending a fair amount of time tied up, frequently in awkward and uncomfortable positions.
For example, a history class on the Civil War taught Eric yet another torture to which he delighted in subjecting me. It was known among the soldiers of both the North and South as being “Bucked and Gagged.” It consists of being seated on the floor, folded up like an accordion, with ankles tied together and one’s bound wrists placed over one’s knees with a pole inserted between the knees and the elbows. Of course, Eric managed to improve on the Civil War version of this exquisite torture by using several implements our forefathers never dreamed of: an artificial penis for a gag and, later, a butt plug attached to a harness to keep both ends stuffed to capacity. With the butt plug also came another addition, a very tight fitting, uncomfortable hood made of lycra which, quite aside from the sight deprivation, also produced the effect of having your head locked in a vise.
As though this wasn’t bad enough, being paddled almost daily, or tied to the overhead hook for a whipping with Eric’s wide leather belt, made my required three hours of piano practice seated on a hard bench really memorable. Still, I was more fortunate than many of the pledges, who were made to wear a large patch of rough burlap like a diaper inside their jockey shorts. Surprisingly, and for reasons never explained to me, Eric never made me do this. Instead, he permitted me the one luxury of having the smooth cool nylon of my panties rubbing against my sore ass instead of that awful scratchy burlap.
Life with Eric was good for me in that Eric expected everyone around him to be as disciplined as he was. After I had been formally initiated into the fraternity, Eric only punished me on those occasions when I really needed to be disciplined. Eric kept a watchful eye on my grades, and anything lower than an A- on an exam, project, or term paper was sure to earn me a spanking and perhaps some time in bondage, euphemistically referred to by Eric as “meditation time.” Physically, I have never been in better shape, either before or since, due to the fact that Eric had me out of the sack doing calisthenics and running with him every morning before breakfast.
Although Eric always insisted loudly that he was completely straight, our sexual activity gradually progressed beyond Eric’s merely using me to get his rocks off. By the time he graduated three years later, I had grown to love Eric deeply and, although he was still very much the top and I the bottom, nevertheless, he developed a real affinity for kissing and cuddling and would even, upon occasion, suck my cock, if it was his idea.
After graduating from college, Eric went back into the Marine Corps, this time as an officer. Neither of us has ever married. We correspond on a fairly regular basis and get together whenever our paths happen to cross, as they did several months ago. I was playing the Rachmaninoff Third Piano Concerto in Charlotte, when who should appear in the Green Room after the concert but this gorgeous hunk in uniform. As I greeted my well-wishers, I found myself fighting a losing battle with a hardon as I gazed at Eric across the room, yet was forced to mark time talking with old ladies until I could have my Marine all to myself.
Back in my hotel room, Eric had me out of my white tie and tails before I could say Semper Fidelis! Since our only leather belt was needed for whipping, Eric got really creative and resorted to using my over-the-calf, semi-sheer, thirty-eight dollar a pair, Doré-Doré black silk socks to bind my wrists and ankles. As I snuggled in Eric’s arms the next morning, with my ass still tingling from a night of monumental fucking and ass whipping, Eric chuckled over a letter he had recently received from my father. Eric and the old man have been fast friends from that very first time I took Eric home with me for spring break. Dad had expressed to Eric his gratitude and happiness over the fact that his good old fraternity had seemingly done the impossible in that it had managed to make a man out of his pantywaist son! To which irony Eric added with a somewhat characteristic smirk: “What do you think of that horse shit, slave girl?” Knowing full well that I had a plane to catch, my answer to Eric’s question was simply to slip back under the covers and between his legs to prove what Eric already knew: that, in spite of all his heroic efforts, poor dad still hasn’t won!
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